


In Which Greg and Mycroft Consider a More Heart-Healthy Lifestyle

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea Appreciation, Cake, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Greg Is More than Bi-Curious, Loneliness, M/M, Mycroft Taught Sherlock Origami - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Mycroft jogs to try to clear the worries from his mind. Worries about Sherlock and about himself. Greg drinks for the same reason. Takes place during John and Mary's wedding reception.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>It's a fix-it of a sort, in correcting the tragic oversight of the writers not allowing Mycroft to eat any wedding cake.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bwblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwblack/gifts).



Mycroft pats his stomach again, reassuring himself that this wretched jogging is doing some good putting off his inevitable decline into the thickening waist (and waste) of middle age, if not doing a damn thing about the thinning hair. The anxious, unmoored feeling he's had so often in the past few months returned with a vengeance this morning and this seems as good a tonic as any. But instead of curing the restlessness, running has simply made him sweaty and more irritable.

He'd snapped at Anthea when she'd asked him if he wanted a suit pressed or a special pocket square for the occasion. And she'd given him such a sad look when he'd told her he wasn't going. None of her business, really, so he'd sent her and her "tsk tsk" face on a pointless errand to Cardiff. Served her right for meddling.

Of course, he _is_ worried about how Sherlock is going to handle the day and the speech. Worrying about such things comes as naturally as breathing after all these years. His brother has not written the final draft of the speech on his computer--he's using notecards, the idiot--so Mycroft hasn't been able to hack in and see it in its entirety. But he has managed to get hold of an early draft, and he can plainly see where the thing is going. He doesn't like it.

Difficult to see anything useful or productive coming from Sherlock's embrace of these messy emotions.

Mycroft had assumed the changes he'd seen in his brother over the past few months would be temporary. But with the nuptials imminent, Sherlock has not detached himself from Dr. Watson and his bride. Has not heeded Mycroft's warnings about caring too much. Now instead of one or two useful professional acquaintances, Sherlock has a flock of them, and even worse, there are now at least two people, other than their mortifying parents, that he loves.

Mycroft is fairly sure he is not one of those two people. Not much room for Mycroft in Sherlock's world these days.

Sherlock has become integral to John and Mary's lives; they have included him even in planning the details of their most important day. Mycroft cannot help but admire the scale model of the reception hall and origami serviettes Sherlock boasted about. Mycroft had spent months and months of his brief adolescence teaching his little brother how to use an exacto knife and get just the right sort of crease in the wings of an origami crane. Time not wasted, it now seems.

Sherlock, John, and Mary have become a harmonious trio, replacing what a few months ago had been two discordant duets. The Sherlock-John friendship is stronger than ever because it now has a third pillar to support it. Mary is a stabilizing, not a disruptive force, and that is more than surprising to Mycroft. It scares him.

He doesn't trust her, but can't yet say why.

He does not need to listen to the "best man" speech to know that his brother has transformed into someone worthy of that title. For an instant--perhaps even less--he considers going to the event. Out of curiosity, nothing more. His invitation is still on the tray in the front hallway. But the thought of the bright, sunny room full of flowers and music and _people_ makes him dizzy. He suspects an illness is rising in his blood--a fever or a flu. Or an allergy to sentimental piffle.

He sits down at his desk and pulls his shirt farther down over his belly. The contrast between his own life and his brother's grows sharper and more painful each day. Mycroft's solitary existence, moving from poorly lit conference room to poorly lit office and then back to his dark library and bedroom at home now seems a cause for concern--as it never has before.

He decides to climb back onto the treadmill to see if he can outrun the cloud gathering over his shoulder, wishing there were something or someone he could run towards.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Greg watches John and Mary dance and feels their love for each other filling up the room until the whole crowd is near drowning in it. They always say that after you stop struggling, drowning isn't a bad way to go--peaceful, quiet, like going home. That's what this is, Greg thinks, closing his eyes and letting himself float for a moment, then chasing that wave of love with another glass of champagne. He's lost count of the number of pints and flutes he's swallowed down since Sherlock's speech.

John and Mary aren't looking at each other lustfully--although Greg's sure there'll be plenty of that later, knowing John. Sex is usually somewhere near front and center of his brain--at least from the way he talks down the pub. John is looking at Mary with hope and pride and pure contentment--knowing he's made exactly the right choice. And she's looking at him the same way. Pretty rare, that. Greg doesn't remember that feeling or that look at his own wedding, nor Anderson's, nor any of his mates' from back home. Can count on the fingers of one hand the times he's seen it. No one ever looked at his Mum that way, he's sad to admit. Although he thinks maybe his grandparents looked at each other this way on their wedding day, judging from the way they still looked at each other across a kitchen table sixty years later.

Greg's not sure if it's all the alcohol in his system or the sentiment in Sherlock's violin music that's making his eyes well up, but he thinks he'd better get hold of himself before he loses it completely. Christ, they're starting the dancing and cavorting part of the night and he's so wobbly he may need Mrs. Hudson to help him make it to the other side of the room. He steadies himself by leaning against a few chairs and makes it outside to the garden where the fresh air is sure to sober him up a bit--enough to take a couple of turns around the floor with Molly and Mrs. H, at least.

He sees Sherlock turning up his collar and walking quickly across the lawn and can't help but call out to him. "Hey, Sherlock--where you going? Don't want to dance?"

Sherlock pauses, then pivots and takes a few steps towards Greg, buttoning his coat although the night is warm, with just a hint of a breeze. "I have some business to conduct elsewhere, now that my official duties . . ."

"Liar." Greg knows he shouldn't overstep, but to hell with it. He'd walked in on those dancing lessons Sherlock had given John, seen the giddy delight they'd both taken in spinning around the carpet at Baker Street. He had eyes, didn't he? Maybe he couldn't solve a bloody locked shower mystery, but he could figure this one out. "You don't want to dance with anyone but John."

Sherlock looks up over the collar of his coat and meets Greg's eyes. He isn't angry or embarrassed. He's smiling, but a little flustered perhaps because he forgets to use a new pseudonym--no _Geoff, Gavin_ , or _Graham_ this time. Greg's hoping for _Gilles_ or _Giancarlo_ one day. "Not a bad deduction, Greg. But incomplete. I want to let them have the floor to themselves now. You may have noticed that I can be a distraction. I tend to take up a lot of the oxygen in the room, so to speak. And I've already turned the dinner into a murder investigation. I think it's time I left centerstage for them, don't you?"

Greg wipes a hand across his face and pauses so he can push his usual growl up around the lump in his throat. He nods and grins. "You're a bloody brilliant detective, Sherlock. That was a beautiful thing to watch today. But you're also a very good man. Get along home now."

Sherlock turns and walks away, but then stops. Without turning around, he calls back to Greg, "Good teacher. On both counts," before disappearing into the darkness.

Greg's phone starts buzzing in his pocket. Mycroft Holmes. That tosser. Greg realizes that Mycroft would probably have enough good manners not to call during John's big day if it weren't important, so he answers reluctantly. "Yeah. Lestrade here."

"Detective Chief Inspector . . ."

"We can do 'Greg,' can't we Mycroft? At least when I'm off the clock?"

Greg can hear Mycroft's out of breath and a bit anxious, so clearly there's something amiss. But he waits patiently, and a few moments later the smooth, officious tone returns. "Yes, indeed. Thank you, Greg. I'm calling about my brother, of course."


	3. Chapter 3

"How did Sherlock's speech go? Was it well received? Did he insult or humiliate more than half of those in attendance?"

"Actually, it was the best speech I've ever heard. He did toss off some insults, but he had everyone laughing and crying in equal measure and for all the right reasons. You would have been proud, Mycroft. I know I couldn't have been prouder of him myself."

Mycroft finds he's moved by Greg's words and doesn't know precisely why. So he waits silently for a moment. Greg fills the silence with a chuckle. "Oh and you'll never believe this--John hugged him! And Sherlock damn near hugged him back. Never thought I'd see that, I can tell you."

It's not that Mycroft is choosing silence. He finds he truly cannot find any words, to say nothing of the right words, beyond a whispered, "Ahh. I see."

"Mycroft, are you okay? Is that all you wanted to ask me? Do you need anything?"

"Where to begin?" he whispers, then takes a deep breath and slips back into his tone of polite condescension, making apologies for taking up Lestrade's time on this most special of occasions. "Please, Inspe. . . Greg, don't let me detain you any longer. Please rejoin the party. I assume Sherlock is correcting everyone's posture for the waltz as we speak?"

"Oh, he's gone already. Left just after he played his composition for John and Mary--which was a smashing success. No, he's gone back to Baker Street, I imagine. Worried about being a third wheel, you might say. Well, cheers, and have a good night yourself, Mycroft."

Greg pauses just long enough that Mycroft can hear him weighing options, then adds, "We all missed you today. Wish you'd been able to make it. Not a proper family gathering without both Holmes brothers, is it?"

Again, Mycroft feels upended, adrift, with no words--specious, fatuous, or sincere--at his disposal. He whispers, "Missed me? Oh. I . . . "

Greg is still plenty tipsy--Mycroft can hear it in the slur of a few words here and there. And he seems to have decided to unburden himself. "I feel a little at loose ends, Mycroft--how about you? All these years seeing Sherlock as a bloody infuriating, insensitive genius with the manners of a five-year-old and now . . . huh--your brother's actually becoming a proper human being, isn't he?" He laughs. A generous, warm and musical laugh, Mycroft thinks. He can hear the noise of the party increase -- the clinking of glasses and tapping of high heels. Lots of squeals and chattering. He suspects Greg is making his way towards the bar. "I wonder sometimes if I'll be much use to him now he's all grown up, if you know what I mean."

Mycroft most certainly does know. He knows that there is less and less dependency, less need for validation or debate coming through on the other end of the phone when he talks to Sherlock these days. He has to resort to low blows if he wants to gain the advantage, gain his full attention. References to their childhood--back when Mycroft was Sherlock's whole world, his hero, the example he aspired towards. That's long gone, and even the pleasures of being Sherlock's archenemy are dwindling. It's more fun for his brother to gad about solving petty crimes than to help Mycroft spin the wheels of government. 

"Yes, I know what you mean, Greg. I used to think I'd be seeing more of Sherlock after John's marriage, but in truth, I don't hold out great hope."

Greg has found the drinks table again, and Mycroft hears him ask for an Orangina. Mycroft thinks perhaps he can also hear a reluctance to hang up. Greg seems to try to say goodbye a few times, but never quite manages it, always bringing up some new anecdote about Sherlock to share. Mycroft is happy to listen. Finally, Greg makes his excuses.

"Listen, Mycroft, I have to go. They're passing around cake now, and Mrs. Hudson looks like she needs a new partner for the twist."

"Yes, of course. Please don't let me keep you."

"It's been good talking with you. Look forward to doing it again. Who knows, maybe we'll actually meet face to face someday!" Greg giggles. "John always tells me you'll toss me into the boot of a car one day, and that'll be the end of it."

Mycroft frowns. He doesn't understand why the Inspector is laughing at the notion of meeting him but feels wounded nonetheless. Greg can't have a very high opinion of Mycroft after all those years poisoned by Sherlock's point of view. Just as well, then. Let him laugh.

Mycroft says goodbye abruptly and returns to his treadmill. The mention of cake was bothersome and dangerous. He'd better keep jogging until Anthea returns or else he'll succumb and end up in a sugar-induced coma by evening's end.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Greg does the twist and electric slide with Mrs. Hudson. Joins the group briefly for the Macarena and an ill-advised attempt at Gangnam Style. He's vowing to stop smoking again as he tries to catch his breath after a polka with one of John's aunts, when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

"Anthea, what the hell are you doing here?" He laughs, realizing that's not the best greeting. "I'm sorry. Nice to see you. Are you alone? Is . . ."

"Very good to see you too, Inspector Lestrade. May I speak to you in private?" She's holding a plate with a large slice of wedding cake on it, and is dressed in her usual dark, tailored suit, not really summer wedding regalia. Greg's curious, so he follows her into the garden and sees a long black car idling nearby.

"I need your help, Inspector. It's a matter of some delicacy, requiring discretion, and your particular gifts."

Greg has no idea what she's talking about--but with Anthea that's par for the course. He peers into the car and looks around him--half expecting a bunch of black-garbed ninjas or Secret Service blokes to jump him. "What are you on about, Anthea? Just tell me what you need."

"You know how to talk to Holmeses, don't you? That's what I need, and I need it right away. Will you come with me to see Mr. Holmes?"

Greg looks though the windows at the wedding party, still going strong. Then he feels the beer, the champagne, and all that rich food weighing him down. His shoes pinch and his tie is starting to strangle him. It's not really another one of those "Mycroft is calling, so drop everything" moments he swore would never happen again. It's Anthea this time. He's always trusted Anthea to be straight with him--none of the Holmes bullshit. So, why not? Plus, he's never had a chance to meet the bugger in person--he probably ought to grab the opportunity while he can.

"Sure. I guess I can go with you. Let me go get my coat and say goodbye. And you'll fill me in on the way to Castle Mycroft, I guess?"

Anthea nods and opens the car door, clearly relieved. "I'll be waiting--please, hurry."

In the car, Greg finds he has a hard time staying awake. He's exhausted all of a sudden. Mentally exhausted from the pressure of that Waters Family case. Physically tired from all the dancing on top of all the impromptu policework in the middle of the damn wedding reception. Christ. What a day. What a couple of years. He notices that Anthea is looking at him as his eyelids keep fluttering shut. His head jerks up, just before sleep can overtake him. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to interrogate her about the why and what of this trip to see Big Brother.

"Anthea, you'll have to give me some details so I know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing. Is Mycroft okay? You know I've never even met the man properly, just by phone--not sure if I can be of any help to you.

"I think you're the only person who can talk sense to him right now, Inspector."

"Call me Greg."

"Yes. Thank you. Greg." She pauses, her eyes darting back and forth, strategizing, probably trying to decide what to divulge and what to hold back. It's all about secrets with Mycroft, isn't it? She pushes a button on the door handle to her right and a dark glass panel slides up so the driver can't hear what they're saying.

"Mr. Holmes is in a bad way tonight. He's had a fall and sprained his ankle and done some sort of damage to his shoulder. When I found him on the floor of his room he seemed delirious."

"Jesus, Anthea--sounds like you need an ambulance--or at least you need to get him to a doctor, not a copper. I can't fix a sprained ankle."

Anthea frowns, looking impatient for a moment, before composing her face into the usual calm, dispassionate blank. "I know I can count on your discretion--you've demonstrated it so often with Sherlock, so . . . " She draws herself up tall, smoothes her coat, and explains. "Mr. Holmes adamantly refuses a doctor. He's currently a little drunk, dehydrated, and I honestly don't think he's had anything to eat in at least 24 hours. He's lost all his usual self-control and mental acuity. When I found him a half hour ago, he was lying on the floor near his treadmill. It was still going, so he must have fallen off. There was half a pitcher of orange juice laced with vodka nearby. He was moaning and clearly in some pain--both physical and mental. And . . . "

She pauses for breath and looks at Greg, her lower lip quivering--a rare show of emotion, which she quickly covers with her hand. Greg realizes his own mouth is hanging open in shock.

"Blimey--that does not sound like Mycroft Holmes. I mean, I just spoke to him a couple of hours ago, and he seemed okay."

"Yes. I have never seen him like this, but Felina, his cook, says it's not unprecedented when his stress levels reach extreme levels. The last time she remembers a similar episode was years ago, just before Sherlock went into rehab for the first time."

Greg nods. He was around for the sequels: Rehab 2, 3, and 4--but of course the first one would have been an epic battle with a half-dead 19-year-old Sherlock. Not surprising it would have sent his brother off the deep end.

Anthea pauses, then leans a little closer to Greg before whispering, "He was also calling your name, Greg. And he was saying the words . . . 'stupid' and 'too late' over and over."

Greg pulls back now, suddenly losing the sympathy for Mycroft that Anthea's speech had begun to elicit. "Well, that's a bloody Holmes for you. What did I ever do to him? Honestly, Anthea, I'm not sure I'm the man you want to help you . . ."

"No, Greg, he wasn't calling _you_ stupid. He was talking about himself." She's twisting the belt of her trenchcoat in her fingers now, nervous. He's seen that look a hundred times. Someone ready to make a confession, but needing a shove to make it happen.

Greg puts a hand on her arm and squeezes. "Okay, okay. Just tell me what you think I need to know."

Anthea closes her eyes and lowers her voice even more until it's just a breathy hum. "Mycroft is . . . He's very English, you know." She opens her eyes and tosses Lestrade a smile and a little wink before continuing, just a little louder. "He's not a man with easy access to his emotions. Most people think he doesn't have any. But for years now it's been fairly obvious that he is . . . He thinks of you as . . ." She punches the the seat in front of her in frustration. "Oh to hell with it. He's infatuated with you, Greg. He's completely smitten." She pauses to let the dust settle from the detonation of that bombshell.

Greg's mouth is hanging open again and he doesn't bother closing it this time. She continues, looking straight at him, unwavering as Greg tries to puzzle out whether this is one of Sherlock's not-funny-at-all jokes.

"He doesn't have a companion right now to distract him, so I think that makes it worse. He'd ship me to a permanent post above the Arctic Circle if he knew I told you this, but I just want you to be prepared and to understand the situation when you see him."

Greg finds his voice at last. "What do you expect me to do, Anthea? Is this . . . Christ, am I supposed to . . . ?" He can't say it or even think it. Is she Mycroft's procurer? Is Greg the rent boy for the night? What the hell is going on?

Her eyes widen in horror as she realizes what Greg is thinking. "Oh God, no! No, no, no. I'd just like you to talk to him. Try to get him out of this self-destructive spiral he's in. He's not eating or drinking anything except that stupid vodka concoction, and he's exercising like he's training for the Olympics. I think that he feels he's losing Sherlock to the world of real human beings. Sherlock's changing--slowly, of course--but he's evolving. He has real friends now. Mr. Holmes doesn't. Never has. I try, of course, but he doesn't let me come too close. And if Sherlock abandons him, Mr. Holmes has no one else he can really talk with on the same intellectual level."

Greg snorts and rolls his eyes. "I'm hardly . . ."

Anthea interrupts. "You can't replace Sherlock, I know that. But if he thought he still had a working relationship with you, I think it would go a long way towards calming him down. He admires you, Greg. He admires the way you are with Sherlock. Your way with people. Perhaps if you spend a little time with him, he'd be able to set himself right."

Greg squirms in his seat, but is feeling a little less befuddled now. "So you just want me to talk to him? Not sure I know what to say. What about the ankle? The shoulder?"

"The physical issues are something I'm not very concerned about. I can bandage him up if he'll let me touch him,  after he's been convinced to eat and drink something. Manners are so important to him. I'm sure he'll offer you tea, and perhaps you can get him to eat some of the wedding cake I've brought-- or better still, a sandwich. Tell him about Sherlock's speech or some little anecdote from the wedding and maybe he'll be willing to let go, stop focusing on staying in control. He's always had this problem with food. If he thinks he's lost his advantage in any other area of his life, he becomes obsessed with bringing everything to do with his body under tight control.

Greg nods. He's beginning to understand, but as they pull up to Mycroft's house and the gates swing open, he still has questions, and he's getting nervous about confronting someone who is clearly in a dangerous state of mind.

"You'll be there, right? I don't think I should be alone with him--I don't want to do anything wrong, you know?"

"I'll be there." She smiles, confident Greg's not going to bolt before they reach the front door.

"And I don't have to say I fancy him or . . . ?"

Anthea doesn't say anything for what seems to Greg like hours and hours. Finally, she speaks firmly. "Please don't say anything that makes you uncomfortable or is a lie. Mr. Holmes deals in lies and obfuscations for a living, and he doesn't forgive people who try to deceive him in his private life." 

They sit in silence in front of the house for a few minutes, a thousand questions unspoken. Greg glances at the lines of worry around her mouth and the dark circles under her eyes.

"You fancy him, don't you, Anthea?"

She closes her eyes and sighs.

"I do. But he's never expressed any interest in me, or in any woman, as long as I've known him. So I try not to think about things that can't happen."

"Hmm. I'm sorry. A lot of that going around, isn't there?"

"Not sure if you're talking about Molly Hooper or . . .?"

"Yeah. Sherlock too, I reckon."

"Yes, they're all in a pickle, aren't they? How about you? I understand you're divorced."

"Mmm. Yes. I guess I'm okay now. It's been a long time coming. Better to be alone in the job I'm in."

"That's what Mr. Holmes says." Anthea smiles and looks down at her hands, primly folded in her lap. "But surely it's never really better to be alone, is it? I don't suppose it's possible you could be interested in a man? A man like him?"

Greg takes a long breath, wishing he'd brought his cigarettes, so he'd have something to do with his own hands now besides tapping his knees nervously. "Well, I'm not saying it's impossible. You know there have been a few men--when I was younger. I guess I always figured I was maybe 30 percent gay, if there's such a thing as that?"

Anthea is nodding. Of course, she's probably got a dossier with files on everyone Greg has ever snogged, doesn't she? He can feel himself turning pink from his neck up to his scalp. "But Sherlock's brother? He's such an odd bird, isn't he? And Sherlock's always saying how horrible he is. . . "

"Sherlock's an idiot." Anthea turns brusquely efficient suddenly, and Greg realizes the sharing secrets portion of the evening is over, and it's time for action. Thank Jesus for that.

When Greg walks into the bedroom and sees Mycroft Holmes for the first time, his guts twist and turn inside him. This man is nothing like the all-powerful, all-seeing, manipulative bastard Greg has sometimes pictured when talking with him on the phone or listening to Sherlock's stories. He is slim and fine-featured, with a long nose and graceful hands. His cheeks are pink and flushed. His hair is clearly receding at a faster clip than Greg's, which pleases Greg for reasons he really cannot explain.

Anthea had left him on the floor, his foot wrapped in an ice-pack and pillows strategically cushioning his shoulder and ankle and head. His eyes are closed, but Greg can see them start to flutter, his body and mind stirring as he realizes people have invaded his room.

Greg takes off his coat and throws it over the treadmill before he approaches Mycroft. Anthea starts to say something, but Greg shushes her with a finger to his lips. Mycroft opens his eyes wearily and Greg can see his breathing quicken, his cheeks flush a little deeper pink. Greg's not sure what possesses him, not sure what he's thinking, but he kneels down next to Mycroft and cups his cheek in one hand.

"Looks like you've had a rough day, Mycroft. Me too. Let's see if we can make it a little better for both of us."

Greg slides one hand under Mycroft's knees and another firmly around his shoulders and lifts him up, wobbling a little as he gets his balance in a standing position. He carries Mycroft to the bed and waits while Anthea pulls back the duvet and fluffs the pillows. Greg gently lays his burden down and asks Anthea to fetch tea, cheese and ham sandwiches, and another ice pack.

For the next hour, Greg sits next to Mycroft's bed, tie loosened, jacket off and sleeves rolled up. He talks almost non-stop and Mycroft listens, occasionally giggling or frowning, but never speaking. Greg talks about helping Sherlock write his Best Man's Speech, about the bending of the truth they'd done to avoid a disciplinary hearing because of the "maximum response" and bloody helicopters fiasco. He goes into detail about the wedding ceremony, the faces the little kids in the church pulled, the food at the reception, and the stunning performance Sherlock and John put on when they'd solved the murder in front of everyone. "Best wedding entertainment ever," Greg laughs. "That DJ had nowhere to go but downhill, after that."

Anthea and Greg both examine Mycroft's ankle and determine that the sprain isn't serious. Greg makes both of them laugh when he pulls off his shoes and socks and shows them the damage done to his own feet when he "kicked the fucking hell" out of a police car a few months ago.

Greg is surprised to realize that he might have been doing some awkward flirting when he'd asked Mycroft to feel his misshappen toes-- irreparably lumpy from being broken in three places. Mycroft had not been able to resist tickling Greg's feet, then blushed fiercely as Greg pulled his feet away, flustered and stammering. Greg had quickly started telling the story of Molly stabbing her faux-Sherlock boyfriend with a fork.

With a little coaxing, Mycroft drinks a full pot of herbal tea and eats almost a whole sandwich. And 95 percent of the cake. When he realizes there is only a forkful left for Greg, Mycroft looks suitably ashamed. But Greg waves him off. "Bah, I had plenty of cake earlier--I'm nearly bursting out of my trousers now anyway."

Mycroft starts giggling and sputtering and then gives Greg's trousers a wicked glance. The Inspector starts laughing too, and then can't stop. God, he is so very tired, and this whole situation could not be more ridiculous . . .

"Bloody hell, Mycroft, you are a real surprise--and a good one at that." he says, when he finally wipes the giggle-tears from his eyes, "I never did say I'm pleased to meet you, did I?" Greg holds out his hand. Mycroft hesitates, then wipes his hands carefully on the serviette on his lap, before shaking firmly and quickly.

"I am quite, quite pleased to meet you too, Greg. Very pleased, indeed." The first full sentence he's spoken all night.

Greg holds up his hand. He's unable to suppress a yawn, but doesn't want Mycroft to think it's any reflection on his company. "Sorry, Mycroft, I . . . "

Carlos, Mycroft's driver enters the room. "Mr. Holmes. Miss Anthea asked if I would help you into your pyjamas and dressing gown--she thinks perhaps it's time for you to try to get some sleep. She's arranged a doctor for 9 a.m. tomorrow.

Mycroft smiles--a little touch of sadness in his eyes--and nods.

Greg stands up out of the bedside chair he's been settled in and finds he's a bit wobbly on his feet. He looks at his watch. "Oh Christ, it's after midnight, I guess I'd better . . ."

"Please stay just a few minutes until I return. I'd like to see you out. Carlos will drive you home."

Greg nods and watches Mycroft limp towards his dressing room, leaning heavily on Carlos. He can't help lingering for a moment on the sight of two very long legs and a surprisingly fit arse, before sitting down on the bed to wait.

 

* * *

When he wakes up at 4 a.m., Greg's mouth is dry and cottony and his head is foggy. He is fully clothed, except for his shoes and socks, and sprawled half on, half off the left side of Mycroft Holmes's bed.

He opens is eyes and looks to his right to see the man himself, Sherlock's brother, asleep on the pillow next to him.

Nice smile for such a scary bastard.

The whole bloody world makes no sense now, Greg knows that for sure. But he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep, confident that Anthea will explain it all to him tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> _As Gravesdiggers will know, the little line about Lestrade thinking he might be 30 percent gay is an allusion to Rupert's mention in an interview that "I've swung between two per cent and 38 per cent gayness, I think, something like that, in my life."_


End file.
